“I can’t wait!” said Kathy, clapping her hands again.
So, that was the story, more or less. And here we were. This was going to be winter break. The four of us were headed to an inn in West Lake, Vermont, for a week of skiing and sitting by the fire, and “getting to know each other.” Ugh. I didn’t even know how to ski. I had a feeling it wasn’t going to come naturally either. I liked running in gym, and I had gone to ballet classes when I was little, but most of the time I was trying not to trip over my own feet. To me, downhill skiing sounded like an invitation to a face dive. Jeremy was psyched, though. He had been skiing a few times with friends and said this time he was going to try snowboarding, too. Dad and Kathy were going to do cross-country, because they heard that was easier to break into. So that left me all alone.
I did have a plan, though. Phoebe and I had talked about it for weeks before. Phoebe was my best friend and we told each other everything. She said West Lake was the capital for hot snow studs, and she was sure I was going to find one at the inn. Then I wouldn’t have to worry about Kathy or Dad or anybody. I had visions of myself flying down the mountain, my scarf whipping behind me, a tall, dark-haired Adonis holding me firmly by the waist. Or he could be blond. And he didn’t have to have muscles. Big muscles kind of ook me out anyway. Just tall. He had to be taller than me. Which meant six feet at least.
Everybody in my family is tall. Dad is 6'2". Jeremy is 6'1". Mom is 5'9" and so am I. It really sucks because most of the guys in my grade are barely my height. Everything about me is kind of long and stringy. My arms, my legs, my hair — which is the color of mud and somewhere between flat and flatter. And I got these long, droopy ears from my dad. That’s why I keep my hair long, and I never wear ponytails. It’s too embarrassing. Jeremy has the same ears, but he’s a boy so he doesn’t care. We also both have a bunch of freckles on our faces. The one thing I actually like about myself is my gray eyes. I’m the only one in my family who has them. My mom says they’re exotic. But I think she says that mostly because she’s my mom. Anyway, I have a thing for eyes. It’s the first thing I notice about people. And I dream about the day when someone will stare all gaga into mine.
It had been so long since I had been with someone. It had been since like — okay, ever. Unless you counted the school play, The Grapes of Wrath, where I got to kiss Leo Strumm. He was playing Al, and I was Al’s Girl and there was this scene where I said, “I thought you said I was purty,” and then he had to kiss me. It was my first real kiss. I mean, I know I’m almost sixteen years old and most people have kissed by then, but I guess I’m a late bloomer and nobody knew it except for Phoebe and my mom but … yeah, there it is.
I had practiced long and hard for that kiss. I made Phoebe sit up with me on my bed and we had smothered my pillows with slobbery smooches. It was a good thing that Phoebe was patient. She’s definitely more experienced than me. She’s just more comfortable around guys than I am. She has red curly hair and cobalt-blue eyes and really pale skin that gets splotches of color whenever she laughs too hard. And she’s good at making conversation, cracking jokes, even walking up to complete strangers at parties and introducing herself.
But not me. I don’t know what it is. I usually have something to say about everything. Seriously. Mom says it’s good that I have opinions. And I do make Phoebe and my other friend Rachel laugh. I know how to say Please take me to your home. I will be a good wife, in Russian. But around guys I feel like my mouth is full of fuzzy marbles. Sometimes Phoebe has to pinch me in the arm just so I’ll say hello. Lately, I’ve been thinking I should just wear a sign that says Really, I’m interesting. Give me a chance. P.S. If I pass out, I’m type O-positive.
Phoebe has kissed a bunch of guys, even dated a few. But a lot of kids in our grade are way ahead of both of us. Like having sex and stuff. Sara Spencer and Kevin Mallon have done it. So have Alissa Paulson and Andy Trotts. And almost everyone on the girls’ lacrosse team lost their virginity on the tournament weekend down in Alexandria, Virginia. Meanwhile, I still have Cookie Monster slippers and I like to sleep with my favorite little pillow — but I hope I’ll catch up one day soon. At this rate, I’ll probably start having sex when I turn forty.
Phoebe said not to give up. That I had to change my attitude. Maybe I was trying too hard. Or not hard enough. I just had to act like myself and act like I liked myself and then guys would see that I was fun to be around. And so we had made a pact. This winter break, something was going to happen. We were going to make it happen. We were going to wear our shiniest lip gloss and put on our brightest smiles. And we were going to find ourselves some men. Some real men.
“Ooh, look at that!” cried Kathy. Two deer leaped across a field after each other, circling playfully around a clump of trees. Hmmrgh. Even deer could find love out here in the woods. There had to be someone for me, too, right?
“Did you see that?” Kathy asked, turning around in her seat. Jeremy was asleep, so she looked at me, her eyelashes batting wildly.
“Yeah, we have deer where I grew up, too,” I said. I knew it was mean, but I was not in the mood.
Kathy seemed unfazed. “It’s just so magical,” she sighed, turning around again. “You know what my favorite thing to do is when it’s snowing really hard?” she continued.
“What?” asked Dad.
“I love to go outside and spend the afternoon kissing snowflakes.”
Dad gave a soft chuckle. “Kissing snowflakes?”
“Yeah! You know, you tilt your head up to the sky and you just let them fall on you. And a lot of them land on your nose or maybe in your eyes and melt. But when you get one, when you really catch the right one on your lips, you know.”
I could see in the mirror Dad had one of those dumb smiles on his face like at the wedding. Ugh.
“I guess it’s kinda silly when I say it out loud,” Kathy said, softer now.
“Yup,” I mouthed, even though nobody was looking at me.
“No, no! I get it,” said Dad. “I think I’ve spent a lot of time staring up at the sky, waiting, and now I’ve got my snowflake to kiss.” And he leaned over again and planted a big one right on Kathy’s perfect rosebud lips.
I thought I was going to break into a million pieces. I was so mad. Why couldn’t Dad find that with Mom? I had never seen him call Mom his snowflake, or stare at her all googly-eyed in the car. Most of our road trips had been up to Connecticut to visit Aunt Doris. We played I Spy or listened to Dad’s Beatles CDs. Once Jeremy stuck a bean from his bean-bag frog up my nose, and I got a nosebleed trying to get it out. Another time Mom threw up in her pocketbook because Dad was taking the turns too fast. They were never romantic and swoony like this. At least not as far as I could remember.
But more than mad, I was jealous. Jealous that Dad had moved on from us. That he had found love. Or dementia — the jury was still out. And now he started whistling. I hadn’t heard him whistle in so long. He was an amazing whistler. It wasn’t just plain old songs, either. His whistling dipped and twirled, trilled and slipped in and out of different tunes. Mostly the Beatles. He did it whenever he was really happy. First it was “Help!” and then it slipped into “Paperback Writer,” mixed with a little of his favorite, “Let It Be.” He had one hand on Kathy’s leg, softly keeping time with his music.
“Hey, Dad? Can we pull over? I gotta pee.” I didn’t really. I just felt like I needed some fresh air. The car felt too small now and all this love stuff was making me a little nauseous.
There wasn’t much in the way of gas stations on this road. Mostly just farmhouses and open fields. Dad finally found a place that looked more like a barn with a wooden sign that said FRESH CIDER! in big green painted letters and blue blinking lights in a little window.